Quixotica

Shh...

It's coming...

Don't look! You'll jinx it...

I want mountains.

God, I want them so bad. And towering forests, deep and inviting canyons carved by powerful rivers, rivers that seem to be only a trickle from far away yet are strong enough to rip you from the world entirely.

Frustration defines me, hems me in and contains all the nervous energy that might otherwise be in danger of spilling forth into something noteworthy. Every time I catch a glimpse of the mountains in the distance, an intangible piece of me bounds forth into being; for brief moments, I know where I am, and where I need to be. Then the light changes, the truck in front of me pulls forward and I'm lost again. I work, I drive, I study and I try to find solace in other people but all the while the I in the equation is frustrated because no matter how long he stares up at those cobalt peaks, they refuse to become real.

I've climbed those mountains, wandered through their forests and slipped in their streams. The reality is always less than the imagined, weaker perhaps because of my own presence in the portrait. No longer a landscape, this lonely tableau of a wanderer in the woods loses something in it's ability to be defined.

Is this your God? That urge, that need, that indescribable something that fills you in an instant and departs before it began? How can you stand it?

How could someone embrace this frustration, an elusive and indescribable piece of yourself flitting about? It taps me on the right shoulder then darts about to perch on my left; by the time I've looked around, it's gone again, and only in hindsight do I realize the enormity of my mistake. When I sit by a woodland stream, I see an ecosystem; hiking a mountain trail, I see bike treads. Sailing on the open ocean, I can't smell the sea for the Subway wrappers; defining what I am, I make black jokes.

I couldn't keep up with art, because the paper never looked like what I saw. I gave up on music, because the melody could never compare to the music I heard. Even now, I have to force my fingers; what I have written is nothing compared to what I have thought, in the moments between breaths. I am part of something I cannot define, and it is beautiful. Achingly, maddeningly beautiful. Turning away in frustration, losing myself in humor and cynicism is preferable to that perpetual anguish.

One day, I'll find what I'm looking for. Will that be Heaven?

So I wrote a big long pedantic entry about my chance encounter with a friendly librarian from Ohio months ago at Heathrow International.

Then I deleted it, both for the sake of brevity and because it was silly.

I never got her name, but I knew before she told me that she worked at a children's school (as a librarian, apparently) and that she walked to work on crisp spring mornings. She was part of a group of educators traveling to Morocco for a teaching summit, and we had absolutely nothing in common. For some reason the cafe seated me at her table as she was finishing her meal (some kind of salad, I think?) despite the fact that we were total strangers and there were empty tables available.
We made small talk, I tried to be polite and then I pulled out a book in an attempt to avoid intruding on her meal. I don't really remember much after that; but I can clearly remember her face, the comfortable dress she was wearing (deep red with a golden trim) and the fact that nothing remarkable occurred. It was not awkward nor invigorating, neither uncomfortable nor gratifying. It was pleasant and empty, like a hollow chocolate bunny or a warm cup of herbal tea.

I don't know why I felt the urge to write about it, and I'm not sure why I continue to recall the encounter despite it's utter lack of any defining moment. What I am sure of is that this is neither the first nor the last time I'll think back to that afternoon in London; I know that pleasant librarian (pretty in a plain sort of way) will follow me forever, and I unabashedly welcome it. I'll never see her again, but her bare footsteps will never cease, rustling softly amidst the crisp sounds of every spring morning.

Also, that salad and tea ended up costing me more than twenty bucks American.

Goddamn euro.

Mmm...cabbage.

Wish I had something interesting to write about. Spring break is incredibly boring; I've got a bunch of work I need to get done, and sitting around studiously avoiding it isn't helping. Mebbe I'll go out and slice n' dice the hedge after lunch, we'll see...

Last night ended alright, I guess. I didn't achieve my goal of experiencing an alcohol-infused night of debauchery, but I guess it's hard to feel bad about not consuming copious amounts of rotgut.

Reminded again that I am not manly. Beer tastes like crap, and if the water sources of Medieval Europe hadn't been contaminated by the accumulated offal of a civilization essentially shitting in their own tap water, I guarantee it would never have risen to prominence as the beverage of choice.

Yes, I know about the Egyptians and the nutritive properties, etc. The stuff's mentioned in the Epic of Gilgamesh. Doesn't mean it tastes any better.

Also, a note concerning forethought. Should you plan to embark on an evening about town and the recreational imbibing of libations is your goal, do your companions the favor of bringing your goddamn I.D. The 350-pound doorman isn't going to be swayed by your Grizzly Adams beard and fond recollections of life in the 80's, no matter how hard you sell it.

Garrett was supposed to hit me up for lunch at Ye Olde Ship, but it's gettin' on towards two and I imagine he only woke up an hour or so ago. Screw it, I'm hungry and there's salmon in the fridge.

Ramblin' post is ramblin'.

Stuff white people like.

It's a beautiful thing.

Too late to blather on now, more tomorrow.